Te Amo Y Más
by ArmedWithAPen
Summary: While wandering La Muerte's palace, Xibalba stumbles across a surprising sight. Which shouldn't be all that surprising, actually. After all, where did you think Manolo's love of acoustic guitar came from? Xibalba/La Muerte. Gravepainters. One-shot.


A/N: _Just saw The Book of Life two days ago and was instantly smitten with Xibalba and La Muerte (whose shipping name is Gravepainters, which I absolutely adore). So here's my little contribution to the BoL archive. Nothing is mine, everything belongs to Jorge Gutierrez and my lord and master Guillermo del Toro, the various and incredibly talented artists who created this film, and to the wonderful Ron Perlman and Kate del Castillo, whose voices I had in mind when writing this piece. Song credits to Diego Luna and Gustavo Santaolalla, Te Amo Y Mas. _

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><p><strong>Te Amo Y Más <strong>

No matter how many times he visited the Land of the Remembered, Xibalba was fairly certain that he would never get used to it. The place practically scintillated with warmth, colors, and vitality. He shuddered. It was enough to make his skin crawl. Honestly, what had he been thinking, attempting to take this flamboyant vibrant realm away from its rightful ruler, his love? He didn't belong here. He didn't even like it here. The only remotely redeeming quality about this Land was the food which, he admitted, was delicious. He could get used to the food. Everything else about the Land, however, actually made him a touch nauseated.

A fragile-looking elderly spirit, bedecked in beads and clutching a goblet, twirled drunkenly past the King of the Underworld, who looked on with a disapproving sniff. The never-ending fiestas apparently remained in full swing; to either side of the narrow, suspended walkway upon which he glided, he could see monstrous parade floats awash with light, lined with _papel picado _and sugar skulls, crowned with spinning figures of those long since dearly departed, blissfully dancing their afterlives away. He sneered again, and casually kicked a little old medieval priest out of his way and into the blackness below.

The skeletons nearby sobered enough to quickly cower away from Xibalba's path, enabling the god to pass on without further interruption. The little priest, whose screams had only just faded into oblivion, suddenly announced his reentry into the Land of the Remembered, screeching from the sky and crashing into a nearby pastry vendor gracelessly. But when he emerged moments later, dazed but far from harmed, a churro stuffed in his mouth, everyone laughed and resumed their activities without further ado.

For, of course, in a land where everyone was already dead, the skies and the swallowing darkness beneath meant nothing. Down was up, up was down, and one could run sideways if they wanted. It was well known that whatever was lost from a walkway would eventually find its way back to the topmost layer of the city—hopefully, without too much injury or loss of limb in the process.

Subsequently, tormenting La Muerte's citizens lacked that certain satisfying tang of finality that Xibalba so enjoyed. But he nevertheless always felt much better after watching someone's cheery purple vestments disappear into the dark.

His path free from further intolerable revelry, the dragon-like god quickly traversed the narrow streets. Shortly he arrived at the doors to his wife's palace, colored a rich, vivid scarlet—her favorite. He deftly tapped one end of his snake staff on the cobblestones, illuminating the tip, which he then touched to the very center of the gates. The heavy oaken doors flew open wide as if they weighed no more than tissue paper, almost bowling over the hapless little _calaca _who had been standing guard resolutely on the other side. He stumbled to his feet as Xibalba glided past.

"M-My Lord, i-i-if I m-may." The guard mumbled his courtesies, falling into a clumsy and slightly dazed bow. He removed his furred eighteenth-century era hat, obviously trying to get Xibalba's attention and failing miserably. The dark god slid smoothly past him with nothing but a small dismissive wave to acknowledge his presence. He might have been an idle gnat. The guard frowned, mustache twitching irritably. He replaced his hat, and marched right into Xibalba's path, shoulders squared and standing firm. Death god or no death god, the Lady La Muerte had asked him to watch the door, and if it was the last thing he did in his afterlife, he was going to obey her orders.

"If I could ask your Lordship to return at another time," the guard said, glaring up at Xibalba with as much dignity as he could muster given the incredible height difference—the Lord of the Land of the Forgotten easily dwarfed him by several feet. "My Lady is currently entertaining a guest, and does not wish to be disturbed."

Xibalba was, understandably, astonished. No one had ever dared talk to him like that before. The two most popular reactions to his presence were either cowering or scuttling to safety. He stared at this little, blue _calaca _as though he had never seen one before, eyeing him up and down and deciding that, no, he was not incredibly different from any other spirit in this soul-forsaken realm, and how dare he think he had the right to address the King of the Dead in such a manner, and to go so far as to bar him from his own wife!

Xibalba bristled, and his wings stretched a little higher into the air. The candles on his elaborate crown burned a decidedly threatening green. The air temperature dropped alarmingly fast, and even the colors of La Muerte's beautiful foyer seemed to grow a little paler on their columns. The guard shivered, but did not stand aside. Xibalba leaned closer.

"Do you know who I am, little man?"

The guard trembled. "Y-Yes, m-my Lord."

"What is your name?"

"C-Captain J-Juan Gab-briel Marcelos A-Alvarez, my Lord."

Xibalba rose again to his full height, smirking at the little silver sword at Captain Alvarez's side, and the way the fingers of his right hand flexed as though to grab it any second. For as much good as it apparently did him in life, the god thought wryly, eyeing the skeleton's peg leg, this spirit was a brave spirit. Or an incredibly foolish one.

"Do you know what generally happens to those who come between me and my wife, Juan Gabriel Marcelos Alvarez?"

Even though the poor captain was by now shaking like a leaf in winter, he stubbornly refused to give in. "S-She said she d-didn't want to be d-disturbed," he insisted.

"For me," Xibalba smirked confidently, "she'll make an exception. Stand aside, Captain. Return to your duty."

He could easily have smote the skeleton into oblivion with one wave of his hand, but the longer he dealt with this meager annoyance, the longer he was away from La Muerte. Without further ado, the god dismissed Captain Alvarez, sliding around him as though he were no more than a statue frozen in place.

Instinctively, Alvarez reached for his sword, but as soon as the thought had popped into his mind, it quickly (and wisely) popped back out again, singing the general tune of, "_Are you crazy?!" _Even though Alvarez was fairly certain that, being already dead, one surely couldn't die twice, he decided that he'd rather not push his immortal soul's luck by challenging the Lord of the Land of the Forgotten. As Xibalba made his way up the main foyer steps, the captain reluctantly pivoted on the long red carpet, and returned to his post beside the door. He turned with just enough time to watch the hem of the god's long, black cape disappear up the carved steps. Well, he supposed, if anyone knew the mind of La Muerte, it would have to be her husband. Maybe Xibalba was right, and she wouldn't mind the interruption. Maybe.

Just in case, Captain Alvarez stationed himself closer to the nearby banquet table, which, when upended, would make acceptable cover from whatever flying bits of Xibalba his wife decided to liberate from him.

Meanwhile, Xibalba ascended the steps to La Muerte's chambers with an irritated huff. Ever since he had resumed his regular visits to the Land of the Remembered following their reconciliation after the San Angel episode, what once had been his fierce and mighty presence that froze the hearts of whoever came near him had diminished into a cantankerous old man that La Muerte had wrapped around her little finger. Without a reason to fear his wrath—knowing his wife would hear about it if he _did _misbehave—the residents of the Land of the Remembered had ceased to fear him altogether. He still possessed the power to curse them and the next generation of their family into oblivion. Just not the desire.

While kicking a few priests over the side of the walkway might at worst earn him a glare from his wife, going so far as to meddle in the affairs of mortals or their deceased counterparts would definitely result in a full-on silent treatment for weeks, and having endured La Muerte's distance for more than two centuries, he didn't think he'd be able to stand much more of it.

Ancients, help him, but he loved his wife. He loved her with all his heart. Just the thought of her was enough to make his breathing quicken and his pulse skip. How they still managed, after all this time together, to turn each other's heads was a magic beyond even his reckoning, but he figured that it must have something to do with her eyes. Or her smile. Or her touch. Maybe all three together.

He'd come seeking audience from his wife this afternoon simply for the sake of her company. In the past, he'd had to make excuses; some affair in the Land of the Living, some gamble he was desperate to grab her attention with—and he'd have done anything for her attention, once upon a time.

Even going so far as to offer the wager of a lifetime, switching realms, giving up his favorite pastime of meddling in the lives of mortals.

_You've won our wager, _mi amor. _Along with my heart, all over again. _

As if his heart had ever left her possession in the first place; he was fairly certain that it had belonged to her even before either of them had existed, just as he was equally certain that it would remain hers long after time had stopped.

As he approached her chambers, the door ajar, he paused to listen. The smile growing across his dark features, he crept closer. The tremulous, gentle strains of a chord wafted from the gap in the doorway, charming him as easily as one might a snake, and he was helpless to move except into the light from her chambers, peering through into the main sitting room.

In keeping with La Muerte's favorite colors, the salon was carpeted in red and furnished with mahogany. A roaring fireplace, surrounded by plush velvet armchairs and a long sofa, stood at one end of the massive rectangular room; the other end opened onto a stone balcony that overlooked the kingdom, allowing the faint sounds of perpetual fiestas to drift music-like towards the ceiling. Sumptuous tapestries and oil paintings lined the walls, vases bursting with marigolds filled the room with their unique musky smell, and across from the main entrance was the only other door, the door that led to her bedchamber.

Xibalba felt his heart flutter giddily at the images that door conjured in his mind, but he quickly quashed them. There would be time enough for that later. Right now, he was on a mission.

_Te amo y más de lo que puedes imaginar  
>Te amo además como nunca nadie jamás lo hará<br>En esta canción va mi corazón_

His attention was reclaimed from the tall, lovely wooden door and all its memories by the collection of the seats around the fireplace. Just out of sight, her outlandish crimson sombrero barely visible cresting the back of her high armchair, La Muerte's gentle voice floated in the air like the candles that flickered on her hat and the hem of her dress, pooled in a fragile circle at the foot of her chair. Directly within his view, on the chair opposite her, sat a familiar figure: Carlos Sánchez, smiling lazily into the fire, listening to La Muerte's tender playing and voice.

_Amor más que amor es el nuestro, y te lo vengo a dar _

"_Amor más que amor es el nuestro, y te lo vengo a dar,_" La Muerte finished her song with a single wavering chord, and Don Sánchez applauded enthusiastically. The sombrero bobbed, graciously accepting his praise.

"That song sounds familiar, my Lady," Sánchez grinned beneath his mustache. "It's no wonder my Manolito is as gifted with the guitar as he is in the ring, if he was under your protection all this time."

"You honor me, Don Sánchez," she responded with a smile in her voice. "I only wish I was as gifted with the guitar as your son."

A silence fell over the room as Sánchez stared pensively into the flames, their happy orange light dancing across his skeletal, suddenly melancholy face. "I miss him, my Lady," he confessed quietly. "I miss him so much."

La Muerte made a sound of compassion, reached across the gap between them, and placed a small sugar-white hand over the green sleeve of his matador shirt. Instantly, Xibalba broke from the enchantment his wife had woven with her voice and her guitar. Jealousy flared to life inside him and outside, his candles suddenly blazing aggressively. His eyes narrowed to dangerous slits.

"You will see him again soon, Carlos," she comforted the _calaca_. "Come the next Día de los Muertos, you will all be together again. And sooner after that than you might be willing to admit."

"Much sooner."

Don Sánchez's head whipped up so comically fast that had he been living, he might have broken his neck. Xibalba levelled his stare at him evenly, arms crossed, leaning against the doorframe with all the grace and poise he was not feeling inside, even though La Muerte's hand had long since abandoned its place on his sleeve.

"Very soon, even, if you'd like," Xibalba continued, unperturbed, striding forward with long self-assured steps, his gloved hands clasped behind his back. "I can assure it. I would even venture to say it would be my genuine _pleasure_."

Sánchez's golden eyes brightened with anger and he stood, gripping the two handles of his twin sabers. Xibalba grinned evilly, hand tightening on his staff. He'd been itching for a good fight for a long time, even if it was with a puny mortal that could no more hold a candle to the god's power than a flea to an eagle. His wings flared.

"Xibalba."

La Muerte beat them both to the proverbial punch. As fluidly and as gracefully as only she could manage, the goddess rose, emerging from her high-backed chair in all her sugar-spun glory. Instantly, almost despite himself, Xibalba felt his pose relax, softening. His candles flickered lower.

Ancients save him, but she was beautiful. Every inch of her elegant form—from the enormous sombrero she somehow managed to balance atop her rich, black hair to the tips of her golden slippers that peeked occasionally from beneath the marigolds trimming her dress—was beautiful. In the firelight, her crystalline skin sparkled like diamonds, and her eyes burned like a pair of golden stars. Xibalba melted.

"_Mi amor_," he greeted fondly, inclining his head in the only bow he would ever make. A corner of her mouth turned up in delight at the salutation, and he couldn't help the feeling of pride that swelled in his chest. He continued, "I was going to beg your company for this evening. I didn't realize you were otherwise…engaged." He shot Sánchez a withering look, and to the man's credit, he only shivered a little bit.

"I was actually just leaving," the matador quickly excused himself, relinquishing the vice-like grip he had on his swords. Xibalba grunted with satisfaction. His wife, apparently less satisfied, turned towards Sánchez, crouching to be at eye-level.

"You don't have to go, Carlos," she said gently, "if you do not want to."

But say what you will about Don Sánchez, he knew when three was too many in one space. He cast a furtive glance towards where Xibalba's intimidating silhouette—made even more menacing than usual by the shadows that the fire cast across his sharp, black body—stood a few paces behind La Muerte's armchair. The death god's arms were crossed, and the red skulls in his eyes (whose empty sockets were glued to his wife as if hypnotized) flashed murderously. Sánchez gave a wry smile.

"As always, I am honored, my Lady," he said to La Muerte, "but it would appear that you have more pressing matters to attend to." He bowed from the waist, placing a delicate kiss on the back of her hand, and Xibalba fumed, silently entertaining the delicious image of forcing the man to eat his own matador's jacket.

"Again, thank you for listening, my Lady," Sánchez said quietly. "It's nice to talk to someone who…understands."

La Muerte beamed. "You're more than welcome, Carlos. Any time."

The matador bowed again, pivoted stiffly, and marched from the room, muttering what could only be the most generous excuse for a 'my Lord' as he passed Xibalba and vanished completely through the door.

The dark god sneered at the spot where the human had disappeared. "Finally. Thought he'd never leave—_ow!_"

In a puff of marigolds, La Muerte had appeared in front of him and popped him smartly on the shoulder, her eyes livid. Though the blow hadn't hurt as much as stung his pride, he still glowered at her retreating back and made a show of rubbing his arm.

"What was that for?"

"For being insensitive," she said curtly, reseating herself in her armchair and plucking up her guitar from where she'd left it resting against the arm. "Carlos was only here for a chat, and all you can do is snarl at him. Incredible."

Xibalba growled. He tapped his staff once on the ground, and it liquefied, transforming into his beloved two-headed serpent which happily slithered away towards the hat stand near the door where it coiled contentedly for a quick nap. The god himself took a seat in Sánchez's recently vacated chair.

"What did the maggot want anyway?" he questioned casually, even though inside he was burning. Anyone who received more attention from his wife than him was immediately recognized as a threat, the optimal method of disposal being a swift and painful removal of their heart with his teeth. Thus far, all of La Muerte's guests had managed to escape with their afterlives relatively unscathed, but he swore one day…one day… "It seems every time I visit, you're entertaining one mortal or another. What exactly is it that they all come to you for?"

The Queen of the Underworld idly plucked a few strings on her guitar, adjusting a tuning peg almost absently. For a moment, the tremulous notes were the only noises between them, backed by the crackling of the fire.

Finally, she answered, "Comfort, mostly."

Xibalba frowned in confusion.

"When spirits first arrive here, most are a little…disoriented. They don't know where they are, they don't know who they are. All they know is that one moment, they were living, and the next moment they're standing beside their long-departed relatives. Understandably, it's all a bit shocking. Especially when they begin to remember the ones they left behind aboveworld."

She stared into the fire. "They come to me for advice, and I do what I can." She strummed lightly, and then cast him a defiant glare. "Is that such a crime?"

He smiled. "It's one of the reasons I fell in love with you."

Xibalba savored the expression in her eyes like sweet wine, the way her scowl softened into a beaming grin that shot a blazing warmth through every part of him to the very tips of his fingers. Why she had chosen _him_ of all the beings on this Earth or under it, he would never know. But he would never cease to give thanks every day of his life that she had.

"Sing it again, _mi amor._"

She glanced up, surprised.

"Please."

At his request, her golden eyes burned lower than smoldering coals, and the smile that curved her lips played wicked games with the rhythm of his heart. Softly, she coaxed the four beginning notes from the guitar in her lap. "Hmm. There was once a time I remember quite clearly that you compared my singing to the braying of a donkey in heat."

"_Mi amor." _

One of her fingers trembled on the strings, and in the firelight he could make out the light dusting of pink that crossed her cheeks. He grinned. She chuckled.

"Can't I resist you in anything, my love?" she whispered. Her face was turned at just the right angle that the firelight shimmered in her skin like it was fashioned from gold. To his credit, he made a valiant effort to not be completely captivated. He utterly failed.

_Te amo y más de que lo puedes imaginar  
>Te amo además como nunca nadie jamás lo hará<br>En esta canción va mi corazón  
>Amor más que amor es el nuestro y te lo vengo a dar<em>

Her voice was as sweet as the rest of her, sweeping, dipping, and rising like the stars, tender as caramel, and possessed of a singular, indescribably magical ability to send its owner's husband far, far away, back into the past, spiraling through the years to relive his memory of the first time he saw her, how she had shone like the Sun and smiled like springtime, and how he'd never seen anything more beautiful in his entire immortal life. How she had deftly claimed his helpless heart with her laughter and her eyes, her ferocity and her spirit, and how very hard he had fallen for her before he'd even realized he was falling.

_Te miro y más y más y más te quiero mirar  
>Te amo y sabrás puro sentimiento y no hay nada más<br>Y sue_ñ_o llegar a tu alma tocar  
>Amor más que amor es el nuestro y te lo vengo a dar <em>

Even the snake staff in the corner was smiling in its sleep, charmed beyond repair, and Xibalba was faring no better. Declaring the space between them inexcusable and excruciating, he snapped his long fingers, and a spark of neon magic made short work of it, jerking La Muerte's chair into motion. She stumbled over a word in her song, her eyes sparkling in surprised delight, and tucked her knees beneath her as her chair slid, bunching the carpet, to be right in front of her husband's, the legs of it touching his tar-like robes. He smiled silently and wickedly, obviously content with the new seating arrangement, and placing both hands on her knees, he leaned forward to rest his forehead against hers. She smelled like marigolds.

La Muerte closed her eyes, and continued to sing, her fingers white butterflies on her guitar, and her husband could only watch, transfixed.

_Ruego a Dios tenerte a mi lado  
>Y entonces poderte abrazar<br>Si no estás aquí algo falta  
>Yo por ti pelearé hasta el final <em>

She sang the last line with such undeniable fierceness that he couldn't have doubted her even if he'd wanted to. He sighed.

"Do you remember the first time you sang to me?"

"Of course. The donkey braying, remember?"

His hands moved, cupping her face like the precious thing it was, as gently as one might hold an ancient Aztec treasure, and he told her with no reservations, abandoned, uninhibited, with as much of the love he felt surging in his chest as he could, "I love you, _mi amor_. I do. Irrevocably."

She smiled, "I know," and continued to sing.

_Y sueño llegar a tu alma tocar  
>Amor más que amor es el nuestro, y te lo vengo a dar<em>

_Te amo y más!  
>Te amo y <em>– hey!

It had all happened so suddenly that La Muerte was still unsure what, exactly, had transpired. One moment, she'd been contentedly playing her guitar, lost in the strange, green eyes that were Xibalba's, enjoying the feel of his warmth surrounding her like a physical embrace, and the next, she _was _in his physical embrace, swept up with so much dignity as a sack of potatoes in her husband's arms. She'd only just managed to retain a grip on her guitar, whose strings twanged awkwardly with the sudden movement.

"_¡Ay, Xibalba! _What on earth do you think you're—"

He swooped in and silenced her with a kiss that effectively wiped any sort of protest from her mind, and, despite herself, her arms wound their way around his neck, and the guitar hung between his black condor's wings like he was carrying it himself. She could feel his heart beating beneath his armor, and she grinned against his lips, pressing as close to his body as was physically possible. Gods help her, but she adored her wicked, incorrigible, wonderful husband.

When he finally allowed her a breathless, shaky laugh while keeping their faces connected at the forehead, he explained himself in a low, rich voice:

"There's only so many times you can sing to a god that you love him before he loses composure, _mi amor._"

La Muerte pursed her sugar lips, smirking. "Five times, if I counted right. That's rather a low number, _Balbi,_" she teased.

His candles burned like stars, and he was melting. She didn't fight fair. She knew what that nickname did to him. He quickened his steps toward the high, lovely doors he'd noticed before, and kicked one open with the heel of his leather boot. Across the room, the two-headed snake staff awoke with a startled snore, and lifted its heads just in time to watch its master disappear into the next room, his wife in his arms.

"Well, I'm rather proud of myself, my dear," Xibalba was smirking wickedly. "Twice is usually my limit."

The last noises the staff heard before the doors shut completely was La Muerte's high, chiming laughter, and the low chuckle that joined it. With that, everything faded except the gentle popping of the fireplace and the mariachi music outside, and, content there would be no more interruptions for a long while, the staff returned to its nap.

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><p>AN: _I honestly do prefer the Spanish version to the English one. __As always, please review! _


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